


Whiskey

by iknowhowmystoryends (gorgeouschaos)



Series: If Supernatural was on HBO [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Winchester Makes Bad Decisions, If Supernatural (TV) Were on HBO, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Not Canon Compliant, Season/Series 13, Substance Abuse, before cas comes back, not enough for explicit but it's there, oh boy, that's a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:13:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28587000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gorgeouschaos/pseuds/iknowhowmystoryends
Summary: “You got a death wish, Winchester?”Dean doesn’t respond.Ketch grips the shoulder without the handprint hard enough to leave bruises and half-drags Dean into the parking lot.
Relationships: Arthur Ketch/Dean Winchester
Series: If Supernatural was on HBO [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2040013
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	Whiskey

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to cenotaphy for their hbo Ketch post as well as their conversation with me about Ketch and Dean for inspiring this!  
> This is set vaguely between Cas' death in s12 and his resurrection in s13.  
> Warning for generally unhealthy relationship dynamics, substance abuse, sexual content which I don't think quite warrants an E rating, and brief implications of past prostitution.  
> So, uh. I'm running on caffeine gum and adrenaline. Have this. *flings it at you and runs*

The first time they sleep together, Winchester comes to Ketch. How Winchester tracks him down, Ketch isn’t sure-- he would have thought the most luxurious hotel in town would have better security-- but Winchester shows up with dead enough eyes that Ketch opens the door and pours him a glass of whiskey. 

Winchester doesn’t say a word as he downs his glass. Ketch watches him with one eyebrow raised. There’s a quip about what the whiskey cost on his tongue, but Ketch watches Winchester’s throat bob as he swallows instead of saying anything. 

“We doing this or what?” Winchester asks, setting the glass down hard. 

Ketch’s other eyebrow goes up. “I’m afraid you’ll have to specify.”

Winchester snorts and starts stripping. It takes a while, considering the absurd amount of clothing he insists on wearing, but Ketch gets the memo.

Ketch isn’t sure if he’s about to have the best sex of his life or have his guts ripped out, the way Winchester’s moving. It feels like being trapped in a room with a powderkeg about to blow. 

(If he’s honest with himself, something Ketch tries very hard to avoid being, that uncertainty’s at least half the appeal.)

Ketch stops worrying about the integrity of his intestines sometime around the time Dean shoves him onto the bed. It’s all going smoothly until Winchester very nearly rips Ketch’s throat out when he goes to touch the handprint on Winchester’s shoulder.

“Don’t,” Winchester snarls, rolling his hips hard, and Ketch bites back a moan, bites down on Winchester’s neck in retaliation.

Some things, it seems, are too intimate for Dean Winchester, even when he has another man’s--

Well. 

Ketch doesn’t kiss and tell. 

(Even if there isn’t any kissing. Ketch tries precisely once. Winchester turns his face away so hard Ketch half-expects the pop of snapping vertebrae.)

Winchester grudgingly offers Ketch a cigarette, after. Ketch refuses because he detests Marlboro Reds. He’s a Parliament man. 

Ketch thinks about joining Winchester in the shower, but contents himself with watching Winchester’s muscles flex as he pulls on his too-many shirts again. Ketch left scratch marks down the planes of Winchester’s back. Seeing the red lines makes him run his tongue around his teeth, remembering how Winchester’s skin tasted.

Winchester pauses in the doorway. For a moment, Ketch thinks Winchester’s going to thank him. He’s obscurely disappointed.

Instead, Winchester says, “Not bad, for a Brit.”

He closes the door too quickly for Ketch to respond. 

The next time, Ketch takes a chance as he’s keeping watch while the Winchesters dig up a grave. He asks, “Care for another round when this is over, Winchester?”

The younger Winchester nearly drops his shovel. “What?”

Ketch says, “Wasn’t talking to you.”

A muscle twitches in Sam’s jaw. “Dean?”

Ketch briefly wishes he’d thought this through better, because that’s the same tone Sam asks if someone needs to be killed in.

“Later,” Dean grunts. Ketch isn’t sure who it’s directed at, but Sam keeps digging after a pause, so Ketch takes it as a win. 

The older Winchester follows Ketch back to his car without a word. Ketch can see the conflict on Sam’s face even in the dim light of the flashlights, but Sam doesn’t say anything, so Ketch is pretty sure he’s going to survive the night. 

Winchester looks around the room as Ketch locks the door behind them. “You pay for this on a hunter’s salary?”

“Of course not.” Ketch goes for the mini bar. “I bill my old bosses. They have yet to try to kill me for it.”

Something approaching a laugh comes out of Winchester’s mouth. “You got balls.”

“Yes. And here I was thinking you weren’t drunk during our… rendezvous.”

“Takes a hell of a lot more than that to get me drunk. Speaking of which,” Winchester says, gesturing to the bottle in Ketch’s hand, “gimme.”

“What’s the magic word?”

Winchester looks him dead in the eyes and says, “I’ll give you the best damn blow job you’ve ever had.”

Ketch determinedly doesn’t let his breath hitch. “Wasn’t what I was thinking of, but that works.”

They drink in silence, Dean drinking two glasses to Ketch’s one, until Dean says, “I fucking hate you, you know. For what you did to my family. For what you did to that girl.”

“I know,” Ketch says. There’s no guilt there now, if there ever was. “But you let me fuck you anyway. So what does that make you?”

Winchester smiles. It’s not pleasant. “Either a slut or a monster. Take your pick.”

Ketch has seen monsters. Ketch is a monster. He knows what monsters look like, and Dean Winchester isn’t one. 

He doesn’t bother saying so. He knows how well it would be received. 

It is the best damn blow job Ketch has ever had, even though he’s still not sure he’s not about to get stabbed, because having Dean-motherfucking-Winchester kneel for him? Worth the risk of disembowelment, in Ketch’s opinion. 

“God, you’re fucking good at that,” he pants as Winchester swallows. “Like you’re getting paid for it.”

“Fuck you.” Ketch is on the floor with his jaw aching from Dean’s right hook before he even registers movement.

Dean’s gone before Ketch manages to stand up, and all Ketch can think is _when the hell did ‘Winchester’ turn into ‘Dean’?_

Ketch shows up at the Winchesters’ hotel room with a bottle of scotch a month later. Sam opens the door with his gun drawn. 

“What do you want?”

“To apologize.”

Sam goes to close the door, but Dean calls, “Let him in, Sam.”

Sam’s death glare promises Ketch a painful death, but he steps back enough for Ketch to shoulder past him. 

“Could we have some privacy, Sam?” Ketch drawls. “Unless you want to be here for this, of course, in which case you’re kinkier than I thought you were.”

Sam doesn’t take his eyes or gun off Ketch. “Dean?”

“I’ll be fine,” Dean says. 

Sam sighs. “Call me in ten minutes, or I’m kicking the door down.”

He holsters his gun and slams the door behind him.

“Not my biggest fan, I see,” Ketch comments. 

“You here for a reason?”

“Came to give you this.” Ketch offers the bottle of absinthe. “Highest proof you can get in the United States.”

Dean takes the bottle, says, “I don’t let people who call me a whore fuck me.”

Ketch thinks back to files and arrest records and words he wouldn’t have said if he hadn’t just had a mind-blowing orgasm, says, “You want to fuck me, then?”

“Your place,” Dean says after a pause long enough to make Ketch shift on his feet. “And I gotta call Sam.”

The phone call goes on for longer than the usual “I didn’t get murdered by my fuck buddy” call does. When Dean comes out of the hotel room, he has a duffel bag. He climbs into Ketch’s car and slams the door. 

“Drive,” he orders. 

Ketch doesn’t ask. 

Ketch learns Dean likes being held down, but hates being tied down. He learns that Dean curls into whoever he’s sharing a bed with even if he hates them. He learns that Dean still screams a demon’s name in his sleep, nearly a decade later. 

He learns that Dean likes whiskey better than scotch and absinthe better than either; he learns that Dean really shouldn’t be drinking at all after he hauls Dean to the hospital after he passes out halfway through Ketch reciprocating that blow job. 

“Oxy and absinthe?” Ketch demands as he helps Dean escape the hospital, a bottle of Valium shoved into his suit coat pocket. “You got a death wish, Winchester?”

Dean doesn’t respond.

Ketch grips the shoulder without the handprint hard enough to leave bruises and half-drags Dean into the parking lot.

He fits his own hand to the mark later as Dean rides him, sucks bruises around Dean’s anti-possession tattoo, holds onto Dean’s hips hard enough to leave handprints, drags his fingernails down Dean’s spine until he whines.

Ketch knows Dean’s not his. But damn does Dean look good with Ketch’s marks all over him. 

Ketch sucks another bruise into Dean the next day, trying to get the djinn venom out of the veins in the crook of his elbow. 

He doesn’t comment on the tears streaking down Dean’s face. 

He’s British. He’s tactful like that.

Dean kisses him for the first time that night. He tastes like Parliaments and the whiskey he swore he wouldn’t take with the Valium.

They torture a vampire for information on a girl who got taken, and Dean teaches Ketch some things that even Kendricks didn’t teach him, crooning to the vampire the whole time.

After they get a location, Ketch cuts the vampire’s head off while Dean vomits bile onto the concrete garage floor. 

The girl clings to Dean’s neck as he carries her back to Ketch’s car. It would be sweet if not for the blood spattering his jacket.

“You want to be a dad?” Ketch whispers in Dean’s ear that night. “Want that apple pie American fucking dream? You should know better.”

He’s learned by now how to shut Dean up, so there’s no response then, but Ketch wakes up alone in the honeymoon suite the next morning. There’s a number written on the hotel stationery.

Ketch doesn’t call. 

And if he can’t drink whiskey without tasting Dean, that’s the price he always knew he was going to pay for touching something that he knew belonged to an angel.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed, and I love hearing from y'all.


End file.
